


The Spider and The Fly

by mx_vertiginous



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: BDSM, Boot Worship, F/F, Kink Negotiation, Latex, Light Bondage, Orgasm Denial, Overstimulation, bootlicking, gratuitous use of formal names
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-08-24 11:43:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8371018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mx_vertiginous/pseuds/mx_vertiginous
Summary: "Step into my parlor." said the spider to the fly.The life of a Talon sniper is bleak and cold.  Amelie LaCroix whiles away the lonely days between hits as a domme, chasing the adrenaline sizzle of power.  It's become one of the few ways she can feel anything. So when she meets a striking powerlifter at a club, she draws the young woman into her web.Zarya, is a naive gymrat with a mad crush on the beautiful woman with skin of ice. Following orders from coaches have turned her into a world class competitor, but is she prepared to obey someone who might not have her best interests at heart?  Or it she too starry-eyed to even care?This started as a Kinktober crack-ship and then just got way out of hand.





	1. Step into my parlor

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: This collection is not meant as a model healthy consent or healthy BDSM! Widowmaker is a pretty messed up character, and I'm using that to explore the idea that sometimes manipulative people engage in a mix of healthy and unhealthy behavior. The existence of some elements of safe and healthy BDSM is not intended to endorse the shadier elements of their interactions.
> 
> TL;DR: Widowmaker is a manipulative bitch. Don't do as she does.

It was hard to miss the pink-haired woman who towered above the crowd in the smoky club. But Widowmaker watched her with a feral intensity. I’ve seen her before, Amelie thought to herself, but where? 

The last month had been a blur of missions and travel. Days spent in the window of a dirty squat or hanging in a tree, carefully lining up her shot under the care of local Talon operatives. A few hours in a stark white hotel room with the heater cranked to max. Another flight. Another stake out. Another single shot. Another luxury chain hotel room, exactly like the last. When finally she’d returned home, she’d slept for a full day. Her altered metabolism left her immune to jet-lag, but exhaustion was another story. Still, she knew in all the fog that she’d seen that head of pink hair before. 

“Mimosa please.” The bartender knew her, and didn’t even blink at the odd timing of her order. It was all she could drink now, diluted wine sipped painstakingly slowly. 

“Vodka and soda.” The heavily accented voice cut through the background noise of the club, and without having to look Amelie realized. Of course. It had been the executive at Volskaya Industries. The pink-haired woman had been one of his bodyguards. Ineffective, Amelie thought with satisfaction. One man, one bullet. It had been a perfect head shot.

She took a seat by herself in the back of the club, near a heating vent. One of the luxuries of being back in Paris was that she could stay comfortably warm nearly all the time. She kept the fireplace lit in her tidy row house and had a mental map of the cafes’ with sunny window seats and patio heaters, of the bars like this with warm back corners. And there wasn’t any need for the pretense of stealth. If anyone ever wished to assassinate her (and she would not care if they did), they would seek her out here. Paris was home. 

Her eyes were drawn back to the tall Russian. She was surrounded by a cluster of well built girls in minuscule body-con dresses and didn’t seem to care how out of place she looked wearing trainers and leggings. The bodyguard’s dark suit had been infinitely more flattering. She had clearly had too much vodka at this point, laughing too loud and slapping her companions on the back. A spectacle. If she was here on a job, she was doing a shitty job of staying under the radar. 

A shadow coalesced into the other seat at the small table. “Allo, Gabriel. Please tell me this isn’t business, I’ve been on the road for too long.” 

“Business for me, not for you,” the shadowy figure grunted in return. “Briefings. Not your concern. But I figured I’d find you here when I was in town.”

“Do you know her?” Amelie nodded at the Russian woman. “I ran into her at Volskaya a few weeks back, is she a threat?”

Gabriel chuckled behind his hood. “Aleksandra Zaryanova? No, not a threat to us at least. She’s a Russian athlete and anti-Omnic crusader. You’ll see her on private security sometimes, I guess weightlifting doesn’t pay the bills. Nothing more than hired muscle… I don’t think she knows Talon even exists.” He paused, looking at the woman thoughtfully. “She’s not tracking you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Good to know,” Amelie took a sip of her drink, rolling the bubbles across her tongue and watching the woman pensively. “She’s not exactly stealth.”

The shadow chuckled again, “What, are you looking to replace Gerard with a real man?”

Amelie turned on the shadow like a viper, “You know better, Gabriel. Did you come here just to torture me? Two can play at that game if you wish… you think I don’t know your regrets as well as you know mine?” Gerard’s name always made her feel the empty hole where guilt rightly should have been. 

“If I wanted you to torture me, mi querida, I’d show up at your door and ask.” She could hear the grin in his voice, if not see it on his mask as he faded back into the blackness.

* * *

Zarya slumped onto the leather upholstered divan.

Amelie frowned. “Please, sit up straight. This is not a banya.” She opened the curtains and sunlight flooded the room. “Much better. A little sunshine is nice, no? None of that dank basement business. Too cold.” Her blue skin gave a slight shiver. “Much better to see you, as well.”

She perched on the edge of her desk like a bird; legs crossed, one polished heel resting on the floor, her posture preternaturally straight. “Now, Mlle. Zaryanova, would you please tell me what you are doing before me. Consider it a job interview of sorts.”

Zarya gulped. Did she really have to say it, out loud, in the sharp light of day? It had been one thing to suggest a liason, half-drunk in a smoky jazz club; but this was a whole different ball game. Her gaze followed the line of Mme. LaCroix’s legs down to the floor, before dropping to her own hands in her lap.

“I just thought… well, I had heard of you from our mutual friend Dimitri, and I thought it might be… fun?” She looked Mme. LaCroix in the eyes on the last word, scarred eyebrow arcing up hopefully. The woman’s face was totally blank. “This is more than I expected though, maybe we shouldn’t… I don’t know what I was thinking.” Her eyes dropped back to her own hands, where she picked at a blister on her palm. 

A grin teased at the corners of Widowmaker’s blue lips, waiting for her prey to glance up again. “I believe you know exactly what you were thinking, Mlle. Zaryanova. However, you are free to leave if you would like. Just know that if you leave now, I will not give you another chance for this…” She paused to let the smile light her whole face, “fun you speak of.

Never in her life had Aleksandra Zaryanova been smiled at with such undisguised hunger, it was intoxicating. Something fluttered in the pit of her stomach. 

The air hung heavy between them, dust motes glittering in the sun. Widowmaker spoke again. “I’m sorry, I may not have made myself clear. That was a question… would you like to leave? Or would you like to stay?”

“Stay.” Zarya blurted out in a gasp. She anxiously fidgeted with the seam of her sweatpants, her eyes fixed on Mme. LaCroix’s face, trying to steady her voice. “Stay, I would like to stay.” 

“Shall we discuss what you’ll be agreeing to should you choose to stay?” She quirked her head to the side, but continued smoothly without pausing for an answer. “I expect strict obedience from you here, in my home. I have no interest in what you do with the rest of your life. Step outside my door and you’re a free woman. But should you return here, you will devote yourself to my desires, Mlle. Zaryanova. Understand?”

The Russian girl nodded eagerly, though her restless hands still betrayed her nerves. “Yes, Mme. LaCroix.”

Coached, Amelie realized. She was an athlete and had spent most of her life being coached; blind obedience came as second nature. A useful thing to know.

“In my home, you will address me formally, and I will extend the same grace to you. I will not allow athletic clothes beyond today and I would prefer that you change clothes in the foyer, so as not to dirty up my study. I will provide you with something suitable to wear. And do not touch me without my explicit permission.”

Widowmaker rose from her perch on the desk to stand at the window. She knew the dramatic effect of the backlighting and used it to her advantage. “Please repeat for me, in your own words, the rules should you choose to stay.”

“I will address you formally as Mme. LaCroix, I will wear the clothes you ask me to, and I will not touch you without permission. And I choose to stay. I thought I said that already.”

Amelie ignored the impertinence. “You’re forgetting something.”

In the silence, she could hear the girl squirm uncomfortably on the divan. “Oh… Obedience. Sorry, I thought that was a given.” 

“Strict obedience.” Widowmaker turned at the window, so the light haloed her face. “You will find that I have a surveillance system, and that within my home there is nowhere to hide any transgressions. I can see. I will know.” The hungry grin spread over her face again, Amelie took a long moment to luxuriate in what she was about to say, “And I will very much enjoy punishing you should you disobey.”

Much of what passed for this “negotiation” was hammy theatrics, and Amelie knew it. But ever since her blood had run cold, people seemed to buy the spectacle. It certainly had worked to her advantage here, the Russian girl nodded dumbly, stars in her eyes, dazzled by the promise of discipline and punishment. 

“So is this your idea of fun? I’ll ask you again, would you like to leave? Or stay?”

“Stay, da…” Zarya could feel the unintentional smile spread across her face as her hands went still. “I think we would have some fun together, yes.”


	2. Bootlicker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beautiful, nasty boot worship... do you really need to know more? 
> 
> Quick note about this chapter, it happens immediately after the first, so some of Widowmaker's rules regarding gym clothes don't apply yet.

“I’d like to begin with something useful.” Their mutual friend was a creator of fine leather goods for the fetish market and that had given Amelie an idea. “I have been extremely busy lately, and have not had time to take proper care of some of my things. I would like it very much if you would be so good as to give my boots a good cleaning. They’re filthy.” She neglected to mention that some of the grime was most likely human flesh. 

“Da.” Zarya replied. While she was not as experienced in the kink world Mme. Lacroix might have guessed from her friendship with Dimitri, there had been a bootblack stand at one of the clubs in Moscow, and she was at least familiar with the basics of leather care. “You have polish and things, Madame?”

“Yes, yes, out in the shed. Will you get your grubby sweat-clothes off my couch and kneel on the floor while I collect the things?” Amelie was pleased to see that her request was followed without hesitation. When she returned, she perched herself on the divan, and watched intently as the pink haired girl went through her kit. 

“This is good, da.” A small utility tray held saddle soap, black polish, an old toothbrush, a soft broad brush and a microfiber polishing cloth. “Do you have a towel I can set this out on, and some water for the soap? Hmmm… May I roll back your rug? I don’t want to make it messy.” She held up the cloth “And perhaps some proper cotton rags? This will not do.” 

“Yes, of course you may roll back the rug. It’s Afghan and I would rather it not be damaged. I can get you a bathroom towel… but, I do not keep,” she wrinkled her nose “ _old rags_ , around the house.”

Zarya frowned, running her fingers across the synthetic cloth. It would gum up and leave streaks, there was no way she could get a good shine with it. She looked up at Madame’s knee high boots, admiring the way they clung perfectly to her calves. They had been finely and carefully made to fit. It would not be right to do a poor job. She thought for a second, then pulled off her t-shirt and started tearing it into chunks. 

From the couch, Amelie watched with amusement as her new devotee stripped down to her sportsbra without a second thought. The veins in her forearms popped out slightly as she ripped up the fabric. _Fun _, Mademoiselle had said, yes, this arrangement was going to be fun. “The bathroom is through that door, you can get some water and a bath towel.”__

__Once she had finished setting up, Zarya kneeled at Widowmaker’s feet, barely feeling the hard wood floor against her knees as she pulled one grimy shoe up to rest on her thighs. Mme. Lacroix’s boots were beautiful and they fit the curves of her calf like a glove, but they had so many little details with bits of dirt and scum embedded in them. She started with the stiff toothbrush on the details of the vamp, carefully and meticulously brushing the caked-on grime out of the seams and appliqués, before moving on to the welt where the boot met the sole. She worked in silence, her attention focused on her task._ _

__Amelie was pleased, this was a far superior arrangement to dropping her shoes with the leering old man at the cobbler’s shop. If nothing else, the view was better; broad muscular shoulders and closely cropped pink head bowed in service. The way she had sacrificed her own clothes to the cause of her mistress’ needs. This was a very nice arrangement indeed._ _

__After cleaning the obvious dirt on the upper of both boots, Zarya sat back cross-legged, and settled Madame’s feet into her lap to clean the soles._ _

__“Lick them,” Amelie instructed with a devious grin._ _

__Zarya looked up from her boots with an arched eyebrow, looking Mme. Lacroix directly in the eye to see if she was serious. It was clear she was. Without breaking eye contact she very deliberately ran her tongue up the dirty sole of the boot, grit crumbling off onto her tongue. Bile rose to the back of her throat, but she swallowed it down, pushing back thoughts of where these soles had been by focusing on Madame’s feral grin. The third time her tongue traced a long line up to the curve of the toe, she suddenly felt self-conscious and her eyes darted away in embarrassment. She took up the useless microfiber rag, and spit out a mouthful of crud, then returned to her task, meticulously licking clean every inch; acutely aware of how closely she was being watched the entire time._ _

__“Good girl,” Amelie cooed. The girl at her feet could probably snap her in half without breaking a sweat, and yet there she was, placidly licking the dirt from her shoes without question. The sheer power of the situation was intoxicating. It wasn’t often that Amelie felt much more than flat monotony, her mood only occasionally livened by the grim satisfaction of a kill. But her unbridled authority over the burly powerlifter gave her a pinprick of pleasure._ _

__When the soles were clean, Zarya lifted Mme. Lacroix’s left boot to her face and ran her tongue up the welt of the boot to it’s heel, carefully dodging the boot’s fins. She had been told, very specifically, not to touch without permission, but she had also been told, very specifically, to ‘lick them’ and Zarya was going to run with that until forced to stop. Any sense of disgust was lost in reverie and devotion to her task. Cupping the heel of Madame’s foot in her hand, she wrapped her mouth around the boot’s heel, gently sucking it as if it were a lover’s fingers. Then she moved on to the zipper inside the ankle, settling herself between Madame’s legs to flick her tongue along the rough texture of the teeth, tasting the sharp tang of metal. Cool fingers ruffled through her hair as she bit at the zipper pull._ _

__Daringly, she placed a kiss on the inside of the lady’s knee, and the fingers gripped and pulled her head back violently._ _

__“Did I say you could touch my leg?” Her voice was dripping with disdain, “I did not. Keep your filthy mouth on my shoe, where it belongs.”_ _

__Zarya flushed nearly as pink as her hair, shame mixing with a desire to push the boundaries further; the knowledge that she physically _could_ and also the knowledge that she _wouldn’t_. _ _

__The fingers twisted tighter in her hair, demanding an answer. “Yes Madame. I will…” her voice flinched, her tone dropped, “I will keep my filthy mouth where it belongs.”_ _

__Amelie picked up her feet and shoved the girl down onto the hard floor under her legs, forcing her to lay flat, her head smashed up against the base of the couch. Lightly, she laid her feet back down on the pillow of the girl’s chest. She hooked the heel of one boot into the top edge of her sportsbra, pulling it away from her body angling her foot so that the fins of her boot teased at one pink nipple. From the floor, she heard a soft gasp._ _

__“You’re trash,” she cooed, “look at you, so desperate just for the touch of my dirty shoes.” Amelie tucked her other foot under her, this time forcing the heel into Mlle. Zaryanova’s mouth. “I want you to touch yourself, I want to see how turned on you are by filth and crud.”_ _

__Shocked and thrilled by the sudden brutality, Zarya did as she was told, wiggling her sweatpants down, snaking one hand between her legs, gently stroking the smooth leather of the boot on her chest with the other. She circled her clit with a finger, achingly aware that she was being watched, picturing the predatory look on Madame’s face. The lady was right, she was trash, a degenerate, wholly ashamed that her pussy was throbbing at this treatment, absolutely humiliated that she was touching herself, but so horny she couldn’t resist doing exactly as she was told._ _

__The girl was obedient, Amelie would give her that. A little aggression and she rolled over like a puppy, practically begging for more. She writhed on the floor, moaning and gasping underfoot like an animal caught in a trap. Amelie watched her carefully, and when she seemed just on the verge gave a firm command._ _

__“Stop.”_ _

__But she was too far gone to listen. Amelie pulled the boot out of her mouth and pressed her foot hard down on Mlle. Zaryanova’s breastbone. “I said stop!”_ _

__The sudden pain stopped her in her tracks. The orgasm was so achingly close, buzzing right on the edge, and yet. Madame had told her to stop. Her hand went still, but her body was alive with adrenaline. Her breath came in tiny gasps, she couldn’t even take a full breath to steady herself. But she did as she was told._ _

__Mme. Lacroix lifted the weight off her chest achingly slowly. “Good. I expect you to obey my commands immediately, and I see you may need some training. Now please, on your knees.”_ _

__Trembling and wound up, Zarya willed her body into obedience, slipping out from under Madame’s legs and kneeling on the floor in front of her. She looked up with tears in her eyes. “But Mme. Lacroix. I want.. I need…” she couldn’t go on without staring back at the floor, ashamed, her body ached horribly. “I need to come, Madame. Please.”_ _

__Amelie leaned down and took the girl’s chin in one hand, tipping her face up so that their eyes met. A devilish grin spread across her face. “I know you need to do, Mademoiselle. And you will not. You will pick up the rags of your ratty old t-shirt and you will clean your filthy spittle off my boots. That is all.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if my deep and abiding hatred for synthetic fibers snuck out a little bit in this one.


	3. Overstimulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that they've established some ground rules, Widowmaker decides to test Zarya's limits and find out what it takes to break her down. Latex, bondage, vibrators, implied voyeurism, all the good stuff.

“Allo, Mlle. Zaryanova.” Mme. LaCroix answered the door and gave her a perfunctory air-kiss on the cheek. “I see you’ve come from the gym. Or at least dressed for it. I will give you a moment to change… there’s something hanging in the coat closet for you.”

This was always the most nerve wracking part of Zarya’s visit to Mme. LaCroix’s home. She was under strict instructions to change in the foyer, to not sully Madame’s house with her sweat-soaked gym clothes. However, changing in the mud room meant changing in front of the windowed front door. Not visible from the street of course, but she always feared the postman. Or children selling candy and magazine subscriptions. She always tried to change as unobtrusively as possible, slipping whatever bra-and-panties she’d been given under her sweats, then stripping off her own gear at the last moment.

Today’s outfit presented a puzzle however. A pair of latex briefs attached to a halter top to form some sort of nude colored latex leotard. Zarya could not for the life of her figure out how she could slip it on without stripping down. Surreptitiously, she glanced up at the tiny surveillance camera in the corner of the foyer. She suspected this dilemma was entirely intentional on Mme. LaCroix’s part.

Peering out the front door window to make sure that no one was coming up the path, she stripped out of her sweatpants, and wiggled the briefs up her hips. They stuck less than she expected, they seemed to be coated with some sort of lubricant, but it was still like wrestling on a deadlift suit. She took a deep breath, and a final peek out the window, and pulled off her t-shirt and sports bra, sweeping the latex halter up over her head and jumping back into her favorite hoodie. In the relative safety of her sweatshirt, Zarya neatly folded her things, and put them away into the cubby that had been left for her gym bag. She peered down at the leotard, tugging at it until it fit smoothly and covered what it was intended to cover. Swiftly, she tossed her sweatshirt into her cubby, and opened the door to the warm, sunny study.

“Bonjour Mme. LaCroix.” Shutting the door behind her, she sunk to her knees and waited for Widowmaker to give her permission to rise.

* * *

Theatrics, Amelie thought to herself, turning away from the CCTV feed to the girl kneeling in front of her. So much of it was theatrics. The carefully chosen clothes, the formality of her immaculate study, the not-so-hidden cameras, all of it specifically stage directed to enhance the illusion of power and control. Even the smallest details, the roaring fire that made her warm-blooded guests break out in a sweat, the sunlight that blared through the open curtains like stage lights, all of it calculated to emphasize her comfort over that of her plaything. 

The Russian girl was a particularly good audience; wide-eyed and gullible, Mme. Zaryanova fell for it like a toddler at a pantomime. She was obedient, of course, the reflex of an athlete used to being coached. But she also bought into the act, she believed the fairy tale of Mme. LaCroix the cold-blooded tyrant.

Belief enough to spark at the tiny flint of ego that Amelie had left.

She bound the girl’s wrists behind her back, carefully tucking the rope ends away, out of the reach of fidgety fingers. She had to reach up to hook a finger through the ring at the back of the collar, “Come over to the wall, there you go… on your knees please.”

Securing the collar to a hook on the wall of her brightly lit study, Amelie looked down at her victim with relish. “Shall we begin?”

Zarya slid her eyes up Mme. LaCroix’s boots, the curve of her thighs, the join of her legs, a window of blue skin, the soft curve of small breasts. Beads of sweat formed at her temples. What she wouldn’t do to run her lips, her tongue over these places, her mouth as hungry as her eyes. But it was forbidden. She knew her place, she was not to touch Mme. LaCroix without explicit permission, knew in her own mind that this was for the best. In quiet moments though, Zarya dreamt of the permission to merely kiss Madame’s boot again.

“Shall we begin?” Mme. LaCroix repeated, more insistent this time.

“Da!” Zarya, gulped for air, realizing she had already lost track of what they were doing. “Um… sorry…yes, yes… please Madame.”

Mme. LaCroix squatted to look her in the eye, a feral hunger in her smile that left Zarya breathless. She pulled a soft cloth out of her leg holster, and tied the blindfold around her head, blotting out the light of the room.

“This bodysuit is lovely on you, a good choice on my part,” the whisper in her ear was intimate, but without warmth. A cold hand cupped Zarya’s breast, one finger stroked, her nipple through the thin latex, it stiffened and shivered in response. The toe of Mme. LaCroix’s boot, nudged at her knees, “Apart, if you would. Oui, oui… good. We will have no need for a gag today, so if your hands go numb, please tell me immediately. And I request that you remain on your knees today, yes?”

Zarya knew enough now to know that this was less a request than a very polite order. “Da, Madame.” She gulped, already adrenaline-drunk, trying to remember the right words in their common language. “Yes I will tell you, and yes I will remain on my knees.” She had learned the importance of repeating everything back.

“Good,” footsteps, a cabinet opened and closed, the sounds of Madame fidgeting with something, then a heavy low buzz. “Today, I think we will play with your endurance. Excuse the cord, a necessary evil,” Mme. LaCroix explained, “At least if I want something with real power.”

Zarya gasped as the deep thrum of the vibrator traveled up her inner thigh, pausing short of its mark before teasing down the other side. Twice more Madame teased her, closer each time; Zarya whined, her nerves on edge, her pussy wet against the slick latex, rocking side-to-side on her knees in anticipation. “Please,” she begged, “Please Madame, let me…”

Mme. LaCroix’s purr came from just at her ear. “Of course, Mademoiselle,” as she ground the vibrator against Zarya's cunt.

She leaned into the mechanical buzz, squirming against her restraints and letting the hot wave of orgasm wash over her. Every nerve in her body shivered with energy, then softly collapsed. Zarya giggled, dreamy and lost in her own head.

“You’re too easy, cherie…” Madame purred again, the edge of sarcasm in her voice.

But she had not turned off the machine. Instead, she snaked her hands into the crotch of the panties, and spread Zarya’s outer lips so the taut latex held them open, only a thin film of clammy sweatslicked rubber between her exposed clit and the throbbing wand.

Zarya growled menacingly, this was verging on torture. Her every nerve felt flayed open already, and now the sensation had become not quite pleasure, but not quite pain. Half of her wanted to pull away, to escape; the other half of her wanted to lean into it, chasing the mechanical dragon.

And then, fingers ruffling through her hair, a cool hand on her cheek, blessed soft distractions. Two icy fingers parted her lips, forcing their way into her mouth. Zarya curled her tongue around Madame’s fingers. Slowly she realized that this was the most intimately Madame had allowed herself to be touched. Zarya’s mind shifted, pushing the anxious motorized buzzing to the edge of her consciousness, focusing instead on the feel of her tongue against the join between Madame’s fingers; imagining the blasphemy of her mouth along the join between Madame’s thighs.

She lost herself her mind, feeling the sensation of her mouth against cool skin, picturing every detail of Mme. LaCroix’s body, imagining her hands unbound, quick and warm against blue flesh. The rush of pleasure built slowly like a fever dream, tasting of cool skin and her own hot sweat. Madame pulled her fingers just out of reach, teasing at Zarya’s lips with her nails and grinding the vibrator into her pussy until she could take it no more.

The orgasm hit her like a concussion grenade, hard and explosive, thundering through her body, leaving her weak in it’s wake. She collapsed forward, nearly choking herself on the tethered collar.

But Mme. LaCroix was far from done with her. Without a word, she flicked the vibrator’s speed up a notch to an intensity that was unequivocally painful and yet exquisitely arousing. It shocked Zarya awake and she scooted herself as far away as she could, cramming herself into the wall. Madame only held it more firmly to her clit. The vibrations did not stop. Zarya sought refuge in her mind, trying to find the place she went when training was agony, but somehow she was confused; lust and obedience and exhaustion were all she found. And still the vibrations did not stop. She screamed disjointed bits of Russian profanity, unable to escape, unable to contain herself, unable to find any relief.

Then, after a seemingly endless amount of torture, suddenly Madame flipped the machine off. Zarya collapsed back against the wall, crying hard behind her blindfold, face soaked with tears. She didn’t know how long she laid like that, just that eventually Madame held a straw to her lips, and she drank cool, clean water. “Spasibo” she murmured, unable to search her mind for the English or French.

“We do it again.” Mme. LaCroix’s voice purred in her ear.

“Nyet, nyet!” Zarya panicked. But the voice in her ear just chuckled.

A cool hand found hers, still tied behind her back, and squeezed.

“Non, non, nyet… you are right, we will stop. Your hands are as cold as mine. You should have told me.” Madame unhooked her collar. Zarya collapsed on the floor, exhausted, as Madame worked loose the knots binding her wrists and then removed her blindfold.

Zarya blinked, curling into a fetal position in the warm afternoon sunlight. Mme. LaCroix draped an afghan over her, and placed a glass of water within easy reach. Zarya looked up at her, saddened to see the earlier hunger in her eyes gone, replaced by cool detachment. Zarya reached out to take her hand, leading Madame to flinch and swat her hand away.

Amelie perched on the edge of her desk, watching in silence as the woman on the floor slowly composed herself. Sexual desire and sexual satisfaction were out of reach for her now, but there was a superficial satisfaction in being able to wreck someone, reduce this powerful woman to a lump of flaccid muscle. It was a weak counterfeit of the pleasure of a kill, but at least it was something.

“You should drink some water,” she advised, as Mlle. Zaryanova finally sat up. 

Sweat beaded across the girl’s brow. She looked around, absently pulling the afghan around her, before finding the glass and gulping it down like a parched animal. 

Exhausted, Zarya looked up at Mme. LaCroix, immaculately posed against her desk in a picture of elegance. “Merci, Madame, merci.”

A satisfied smile crept onto Amelie’s face. “My pleasure, Mademoiselle.”


	4. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick little fic-let to resolve this storyline with the problems presented by the Infiltration short, as well as confirmation of the canon that Reaper is a gross lurker. 
> 
> I headcanon that, as a terrorist organization, Talon tends to keep their operatives fairly separated. A sniper like Widowmaker would largely work independently, dropping in to assist particular cells with discreet hits. Reaper is more knowledgeable about the inner workings of the organization, as well as intra-Talon office politics.
> 
> I just love Gabe & Amelie needling each other. They're friends, but the prickliest of friends. I'm tempted to write a whole coffee shop AU of the two of them being sarcastic frenemies.

The snow lay across Paris like a light blanket, but the storefront cafe had a roaring fireplace. The perfect spot to pass a chilly morning, watching ordinary people bustle off to work and school. The cafe was quiet, morning rush had passed and the only other customers were a pair of old men arguing over chess.

Amelie cupped the warm mug in her hands and watched the dust motes dance in a ray of sunlight. A book lay open in front of her, but her attention had shifted to watching the passers-by. She might never again feel the depths of “contentment,” but this superficial pleasantness was better than nothing. 

She sensed Reaper before she saw him, a dimming of the sunbeam, a flicker of chill in the air. The dark figure coalesced silently beside her, leaning back into his chosen armchair. “Bonjour, Amelie.”

“Gabriel. To what do I owe the honor?” Her gut twisted slightly. Last she had heard he was on a hit in Morocco, what was he doing here? 

Gabe looked around cautiously at the old men and caught the attention of the confused barista. Her eyes shot to the door in confusion, where had he come from? But she came to his summons regardless. “Bonjour, Monsieur. Can I get you something? Cafe au lait, a croissant?” 

“Espresso,” he hissed. 

“I find it hard to believe you are in Paris just for for coffee.” Amelie watched him carefully. His eyes were deep shadows and his mannerisms gave away nothing. Talon kept their operatives separated into cells for security and didn’t encourage fraternization. But when she did have a partner, it was usually Gabe. If there was any Talon agent she could get a read on, it would be him. But today, he was a blank page. God, he was infuriating. 

“Not one for small talk this morning?” He asked. “Did they take your manners when they took your soul?”

Amelie paused as the barista placed the press in front of him, waiting until she was out of earshot. “Fuck you, we’re past empty manners. You’re not here for small talk. What’s happening?”

“I have a warning. Your Russian plaything is onto us. Another Talon operative found her tailing Sombra.”

It took one long heartbeat for Amelie to compose her face. “I’m sorry Gabe, but I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would I worry about Sombra? I’ve only worked with her that once in Russia a few months back.” 

The truth stretched as far as she needed it to. Amelie hadn’t worked _with_ Sombra. But Sombra had worked _on_ her. When they had been sent to Volskaya as a team, she recognized the woman immediately. Older now, updated cybernetics flickered under her skin, but it was same girl who was running experimental technology for Talon’s reconditioning facility. Amelie remembered her clearly, staying late in the dank basement rooms tweaking the programming, face lit only by the LED screen in front of her… oblivious to Amelie sobbing through the night.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, the pink-haired girl. I made a mistake in telling you she was harmless. She’s working for Katya Volskaya now. I don’t know what exactly she’s up to, but she was caught tracking Sombra in the Ukraine.”

“That is not my business Gabe. I go where I’m told, I shoot who I’m told to shoot. I don’t worry about other operatives.” She could feel the intensity of his glare as she took another quiet sip of her tea.

“Are you going to pretend you haven’t been seeing her?” he demanded.

The barista appeared at his elbow with his tiny cup of coffee. She gave Widowmaker a sidelong look, as if to ask if she was safe. Amelie waved her off. 

When the waitress left, Amelie regarded him with a smug smile. “No, that would be ridiculous. I’ve seen you lurking around in doorways, watching my house. If you think I don’t have CCTV cameras in my entry you’re a fool. We both know you’ve seen her come and go from my apartments. I simply have no worries that she is a danger at this time.”

“Then you’re a bigger fool than Ger…” Gabe snapped. 

“Ta gueule,” Amelie cut him off rudely. Her profanity even caught the attention old men at their chess. “My private amusement is none of your business, Gabriel. I don’t take my orders from you. Be assured that Talon is not at risk. Now get out of here, I know you have more important things to do."

Reaper shot down the tiny cup of grimdark coffee with an impatient gesture. “I’ve warned you,” his outline became loose and smoky, “If you still want to play with fire, it’s not my fault…” 

A swirling mist whispered in her ear, “when you burn.”

Amelie was left alone. She took a sip of her tea, and gazed thoughtfully out the window.


End file.
